Westerly Winds
by Pyun
Summary: Postfinale, slightly AU. Ross deals with the changes in his life a year after the finale. Actually updated this time.
1. Chapter 1

Author: Patrick

Title: Westerly Winds

Setting: Post-finale, slightly AU. Rachel didn't get off the plane to Paris. She and Ross have since drifted apart, with minimal communication.

Disclaimer: The characters are the property of Bright-Kaufmann-Crane. I don't own them.

AN: I don't know anything about the geography of the area I'm placing Ross in for this particular story, so forgive me if I'm a little (or totally) off. I also don't know anything about Hofstra other than that it _does_ have geology department; it was just geographically convenient.

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**Chapter One**

Tuesday, May 3rd, 2005

He'd sequestered himself in his bedroom again, flanked by a stack of term papers on his left and a television remote on his right. He reached for the remote control first, pressing the red power button, igniting a display of vivid color on the formerly vacant screen in front of him. He debated wordlessly whether or not he should check to see what was on the Discovery Channel or settle for the History Channel documentary about the French Revolution that had faded into view as the TV tube warmed up. Either would do, he quickly decided, since he hadn't come in his room to watch television anyway. When he'd first moved in, he'd turned one of the empty rooms into an office, complete with a comfortable faux leather chair and a stately oak desk in which he could easily avoid the audio-visual distraction altogether if he so desired, but grading in his room became so routine in his New York apartment, when he hadn't the luxury of extra space, that he found himself unable to get comfortable enough in the quietude of the new space to get any work done. He picked up the paper on top of the stack with his left hand and wielded a red pen in his right. His eyes mindlessly began to drift down the page, his pen bleeding mercilessly upon each mistake while some unknown register in the clandestine recesses of his mind kept a running tabulation that would ultimately determine the final grade of the work in hand. As he flipped the first page over, his attention was wrenched screenward by the sound of simulated gunshots and bombshells, an attempt to bring a touch of realism to an otherwise corny battle re-enactment.

Ever since he'd moved to the quaint Hempstead house, the noise of the TV had become a nearly constant fixture, one he employed to gag the deafening silence of the slightly-pastoral suburb. It was an irony that, after wanting desperately to get away from the bustle of the city, he found that every facet of his daily life seemed off-kilter without it. Mornings and nights were suddenly too quiet and his thoughts were suddenly too loud, which was especially a pity when they were often the only companions he had. Sometimes he welcomed the sight of a stray cat or dog on his property as a change of pace from the still, stagnant, and seemingly endless solitude that suffused his dwelling. Where endless hordes of people had been his community before, nature was now.

To say he felt like he belonged would've been an overstatement— he'd met his neighbors, but never spent much time getting to know them— but when his daughter and her mother flew overseas, his sister and his best friend started a new life outside the city, his other best friend switched coasts, and one of his most trusted confidants was busy starting her new life with her new husband, it seemed that there was no longer a niche into which he could fit. This had seemed as good a place as any to get away from it all and start over. Besides, it was close enough to his sister, his parents, and his son that he could visit if and when he needed to. The offer to take the Geology department chair at Hofstra was just the icing on the cake.

He glanced vacantly around the room as a stiff gust of wind rolled through the window, swept across his cheeks, and bounced of the wall of gel holding his hair in place. He breathed the fresh air in deeply and smiled. Sometimes he swore he could smell the coffee from Central Perk when the westerly winds blew just right. Sojourning for a moment, he picked up a small shiny metal frame from his nightstand and stared longingly at the picture within. In the center was a little girl, gazing curiously back at him.

Emma.

She was smiling a little and there was a hint of mischievousness to her demeanor, as if her ignorance of the whole picture-taking ordeal was a total put-on. Ross had often found himself in similar situations wherein his children seemed to know something intuitively that was far beyond their years. Maybe Emma didn't understand the sentimentality of photos yet, but she sure knew what a camera was for. He wondered what she looked like now. Rachel had sent pictures every month or so since they'd left and Ross's heart ached every time he opened an envelope to see inches of growth he'd missed, or the developing characterization to her smile that he was growing less and less familiar with, or even a new outfit that he never got to see her wear for the first time. Raising Ben intermittently had been hard enough; this was torture. It wasn't that Rachel had deliberately kept Emma from her father. They came into the country for Thanksgiving and he'd gotten to spend almost a full week reacquainting himself with her then, but it was just enough for him to realize how much he'd truly missed her. They were supposed to have spent Christmas in the States as well, but some work crisis arose at Louis Vuitton and Rachel was unable to leave Paris. Ross tried to visit during Hofstra's spring break, but Rachel had rebuffed him, claiming that she had business on the road that week and would be in Italy, Greece, and otherwise unavailable. It'd broken his heart, and it wasn't that he didn't believe her— he'd learned much from their past fallouts and wanted to let her career come first— but he would've packed his bags and paid his own way and then some in a heartbeat to accompany them for the chance to be a family again, even if it was just for a few days. Now that summer vacation was around the bend and he'd have more time off, he'd started thinking about visiting again, but was hesitant to mention it to Rachel in one of their infrequent phone conversations lest she had some new obligation that took precedence over him coming to Paris. He wasn't even sure how he would handle it if she said 'no' again. He had no desire to embitter their already-tenuous relationship either.

In the top left corner of the picture, on Emma's shoulder, was a hand. Rachel's hand. Ross looked at the two hands comparing the little similarities that few other people would probably notice: The shape of the cuticles, the way her pinkies curved slightly outward, the coloring, the smoothness; the hands were all Rachel's. He'd memorized those hands years ago and could easily pick them out of a lineup. He missed them terribly— the way they smelled, the way they fit in his, the way they touched his face and his body— and wondered if someone else was getting to know them now like only he had for years. They'd never discussed romance since she left. He didn't really want to know if she was seeing anyone, and apparently she didn't mind not telling; it was an unspoken consensus much like the one that they'd agreed upon on the matter of discussing "them" as well.

Catching his mind adrift, Ross set the framed photo down in its place on his nightstand and returned his focus to the paper. After a moment of regrouping, the red pen began its dance again.

He culminated a paragraph of remarks with an unyielding '76' and tossed the paper on the mattress to his right. He sighed at the two stacks of papers neighboring him, noting wistfully how diametrically diminutive the size of the "graded" pile was in comparison to the "to do" pile. He'd been putting these papers off for days now in favor of a new spy novel he'd gotten into and was now deeply regretting his negligence. He picked up his second victim off the pile to his left and grumbled audibly before beginning his mechanical decomposition of its contents. Noting the name of the author to be that of one the more skilled writers in his class, he took an extra second to scan the title:

_Community Structures of the Middle Cambrian Phyllopod Bed. by Bernie Smallwood_

…_Oh boy…_

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Ross jerked upright with a start and wiped off the trace amount of saliva that had pooled in the corner of his mouth and leaked onto his bottom lip during slumber. He looked around the room in a sleepy daze and saw that the TV was still on, but was the only light filling the room now as the daylight that had poured through his bedroom window earlier had expired for the day. He began fumbling around his bedside table, searching for his watch and wondering how long he'd been out. He sullenly conceded that he had no idea when he'd actually drifted off and laughed at the impossibility of answering his question. Finding his dresser by TV-light, he ran his hands across the smooth wooden top until he felt his watch under his palm. He pressed the Indiglo button and gasped when he beheld the illuminated visage before him.

_10:00? Damn it! How many papers…?_

He reached out towards his bedroom door and flipped a switch next to the frame causing a small lamp on the dresser to come to life. He squinted as his eyes adjusted to the light and seated himself on the bed. As he reached for the "graded" pile, he saw that the document on top was opened to nearly the last page, the header at the top of which read:

Smallwood, 9

_Oh my god…_

Bernie's paper had been only the second one he'd attempted to grade. Ross tried not to panic, but in his hazy state was having trouble keeping his mind rational and well-grounded. He began to do some rough calculations in his head to determine exactly how much time he'd need. Organizing things may have reached a new level of psychosis with his sister, but nevertheless was a panacea that ran thickly through the veins of both Geller children.

_38 papers to go……… 30 – 40 minutes per paper… grades due by noon, Thursday… _

_No, wait… Friday? Why the hell can't I remember?_

Ross exited his room for a few moments before returning with his briefcase. He flopped it down on the bed, turned a few dials, and popped the clasps open. He sifted through the mound of papers within for a few moments before withdrawing a yellow, computer printed information sheet with the school letterhead across the top. He scanned the contents for the grade deadline, hoping that the result would be the latter day, yielding him the precious 24 hours that could be the deciding factor of not only students' grades but his job stability. Ah, there it was:

"Grades MUST be entered into the University System by 12:00pm, May 6th, 2005."

Something about the date immediately stood out to the tired professor, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was at first.

_May 6th…_

Suddenly, the phone rang. Ross darted out of his bedroom and into the kitchen, frantically yanking the phone out of its cradle and snapping it to his ear.

"_Hello?"_


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Westerly Winds

Author: Patrick

This chapter is mostly dialogue. It's not my strongest suit but it seemed like the only way to tell this part of the story so bear with me.

**Chapter Two**

"Ross?" a voice crackled through the receiver. "Hey, it's Chandler."

"Oh, hey man. What's up?"

"Oh same old...look, I was wondering if you could pick up some diapers on your way over tonight. We're down to the last few and—"

"Whoa, hold on there!" Ross interjected, intense confusion setting in. "Chandler, I'm not coming over tonight."

"Fine, Ross. If you're gonna get that worked up about it then don't worry about the stupid diapers," Chandler joked.

"No, _seriously_, I wasn't ever planning on coming over tonight. I've got papers to grade Chan," Ross explained, wondering how he could've possibly misled his friend into expecting a visit from him. In fact, Ross recalled that he hadn't spoken to his sister or her presently perplexed husband since the twins' first birthday party, about a week ago now, and could recall no mention of a visit.

"Oh, okay," Chandler conceded before his confusion got the better of him. "No, wait, I'm confused."

"Me too," agreed Ross. "Why would you think I was coming over tonight?" he asked, semi-indignantly.

Chandler ran his hands through his hair in only half-surprised bewilderment, searching his mind for the missing pieces to the puzzle before him. "Well, big idiot that I am, I just sort of assumed that you might want to visit your daughter and Rachel."

A loud clatter filled Ross's end of the line as his handset crashed to the floor followed by a softer scuffle as he hurried to pick it up. "Real smooth, Ross," Chandler greeted, sensing his friend's return when the movement-induced static crackling through his earpiece was replaced by an anticipatory silence.

"Hold on a second," Ross spat with a spike in intensity that caused Chandler to recoil from the receiver. "Emma and Rachel are there?" Ross grilled.

"Um…no."

"But you said…!"

"She's not here _yet_!" Chandler clarified, "Ok I probably shouldn't have said anything because I'm not 100 percent sure she _is _coming."

"Then why the hell would you say that then?" snarled Ross. "If this is your idea of a joke Chandler, I swear…"

"Cool your jets Rocky," Chandler said, breaking into Ross's tirade. "Mon called me and told me I was in for a surprise tonight. When I got home I found a faxed itinerary on with Rachel's name on the cover sheet on our dresser and put two and two together. The plane was scheduled to land about an hour ago. And let me add it's not exactly the surprise I was expecting, but…."

"So Rachel and Emma are flying _here?_ _Tonight?_"

"I gather so. You didn't know?" Chandler queried, his mouth slightly agape in astonishment. He could practically feel Ross seething through the receiver for several moments before finally erupting.

"I can _not_ believethis!" yelled Ross causing Chandler to once again draw the phone back from his ear. "She's _hiding _from me? She's hiding _my_ daughter from me? What the _hell_ Chandler?" he frantically continued, his voice dripping with outrage.

"Calm down man, I'm sure there's an explanation for this," Chandler soothed, trying to reassure himself with the words just as much as his friend. He didn't want to believe that Rachel would ever try to completely hide a visit from Ross but he also didn't want to be the one that blew her cover if she did. Suddenly a brief tone pulsed through Chandler's earpiece. "Hold on a sec, man," Chandler entreated, "Call Waiting just beeped in. If it's Monica we can clear up this whole mess."

He heard Ross sigh heavily but there was no other reply. "I'll be right back, just hold on," Chandler calmly intoned, pressing a button on the handset. The phone clicked over.

"Hello?"

"Hi, it's me."

"Monica!" gasped Chandler in relief, "Thank God you called. Where are you?"

"I'm on the way home. What's the matter?"

"Is Rachel with you?" Chandler asked hastily, panicking a little.

"How did you know that?" Monica asked in frustration.

"You left the itinerary on our dresser," stated Chandler.

"Damn it!" Monica exclaimed, frustrated with herself for leaving the document in view and ruining her surprise. "Oh well, no point in hiding it now," she conceded, "We're almost there."

"Good. I've got Ross on the other line…"

"You didn't tell him did you?" Monica said, cutting him off.

Chandler blushed. "Well…I…that is… "

"Chandler!" snapped Monica, "He's not supposed to know about this!"

"Not supposed to know?" Chandler repeated indignantly, "but honey, that's _his _daughter in there. Isn't it wrong not to tell him?"

"Rachel was going to surprise him, dummy!" Monica said, finally spelling it out for her husband.

"_Ohhhhh_!" Chandler gasped, finally getting it. His mind drifted back to his troubled friend on the other line. "Well Ross is still on hold. He thinks the worst, naturally, so I'd better explain it to him before he does something stupid."

"Yeah remind me to do that with you next time something like this comes up," Monica sneered. "We'll see you soon. Bye."

"Bye, hon." Chandler pressed the same button that he'd used moments ago to answer his wife's call.

"Hey man I—," Chandler stop dead and shrunk away from the receiver, his eyes widening in dread at the sound of the dial tone pouring through the earpiece. He frantically dialed Ross's home number and waited for the phone to ring. His stomach rolled and he paled a little as one ring turned to six without an answer. Remembering that Ross had yet to hook up his answering machine, he set the phone back in its cradle and flopped down on the couch feeling defeated. He put his hand to his brow and rubbed lightly, trying to massage away visions of Ross brooding angrily, alone, and convinced that his family was trying to avoid him.

"I _am_ a big idiot," he sighed.


	3. Chapter 3

Author: Patrick

Title: Westerly Winds

Disclaimer: I don't own them

AN: Another dialogue heavy chapter. Damn it! Bear with me here. Hope you're enjoying and thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far. Sorry the chapters aren't longer. I guess I'm losing my touch.

**Chapter Three**

May 4th, 2005

Ross worked assiduously in front of his keyboard, keying in grade after grade. He was exhausted, having managed to garner only an hour or so of sleep, but was proud of the proficient nature in which he'd spent his long waking hours. Though the emotional gravity of Chandler's revelation the previous evening had been intense, it'd driven Ross into a possessed state of efficacy, grading paper after paper in near record time.

The downside of all this, from which Ross had decisively averted himself, was that he still hadn't really given his mind the proper liberty to explore the circumstances of what'd gone down the night before. The hurt and frustration had bubbled to the surface multiple times in the wee hours between page turns and remark-scribbling and he'd stuffed it back down each time with increasing stubbornness.

The percussive rattle of key strokes finally halted and Ross reached for the mouse and guided the pointer to a button marked "Submit." He eyed the database before him briefly, scanning for any anomalies that chose to make themselves apparent. None did.

Click

And so another semester was officially concluded.

Ross sighed heavily, leaned back in his desk chair, and closed his eyes, feeling at once the weight of too many hours of unrest bearing down upon him. He looked at his watch: 6:45pm. It was earlier than he'd expected. There was a heavy cloud cover outside and very little daylight was coming through his office's lone window. An early evening would hardly be an issue, Ross figured, since he was now running on an empty tank anyway. He was about to pack up his briefcase and call it a day's work when an innocuous sound wave rang out through his computer speakers. Matching this audio alert was a small blinking envelope in the System Tray on the bottom right hand side of his screen. He debated for a moment before curiosity got the best of him. He was a bit relieved, frankly, because he'd run out of distractions and needed a new task to occupy his mind. And if the business contained in the email was unwanted, he could always ignore it, at least for the evening if nothing else. He hovered the mouse cursor over the blinking alert icon and double clicked, causing a window to appear loaded with an orderly conglomeration of buttons, icons, menus, and a screen representing the inbox. He clicked on a line of text and the new message appeared in a window below:

_Hey Ross-_

_Hi! My birth mom is moving and needs help with some of the furniture. I'm going to Montauk tomorrow to help out, wondering if you'd pitch in? I can drive._

_-Pheebs_

Ross stroked his chin thoughtfully for a second.

_Did Phoebe know about Rachel and Emma's visit? It seems odd that she wouldn't have mentioned it if she did. One way to find out…_

Ross picked up his desk phone and dialed a familiar number. A few moments later a voice answered.

"Hello?"

"Hello Phoebe? It's Ross."

"Oh _hey!_" the zany blonde beamed excitedly, "That was so fast! I can't believe I'm about to say this, but I'm really starting to like this email stuff."

Ross snickered. "Not too shabby, huh?"

"So," Phoebe began, getting right to the point, "Can you come with me?"

Ross straightened his throat. "Before I answer that, I need to ask you a question."

"C'mon Ross, it's not like I'm trying to sell you a warranty," Phoebe griped. "Yes or no?" Deciding to throw diplomacy to the wind, Ross went straight for the jugular.

"Did you know Rachel was in town?" Ross awaited his friend's response, monitoring carefully for anything conspicuous.

"What? Really?"

Her surprise _sounded _genuine. Ross was yet to be convinced that Phoebe wasn't in on the whole thing. If she was lying he was determined to catch her stumbling.

"You didn't know?" he asked.

"Are you sure she's here? Is she with you? Ooh! Are you guys back together?" Phoebe's tempo and volume increased with each question. Ross sighed and rubbed his face firmly with his free hand.

"No, no she's not with me but I'm pretty sure she's here. She faxed Monica flight info and Chandler found it. He called me. From the sounds of things _I_ wasn't even supposed to know. Chan suggested it might be a misunderstanding but it seemed pretty clear to me."

"It damn well better be a misunderstanding for that girl's sake. If she came into the country and didn't even _call_ me then she better not come back next time if she knows what's good for her!" Phoebe threatened, a perceptible (yet familiar) hint of rage coloring her tone.

Awkward silence.

"Well did you try to call Mon and straighten this whole thing out?" Phoebe suggested, her temper calming, "I mean I'd expect _my_ sister to lie but I don't think Monica would keep something like _this_ from _you._" Ross considered that thought for a moment.

"Yeah…you're probably right," he conceded half-heartedly.

"Of course I am. I'm _always_ right. You of all people should know that by now." Ross laughed.

"Sure," he patronized.

"So where'd we land on tomorrow?" Ross sat in silent confusion for a moment before the original purpose of the call came back to him.

"Oh. Well, I guess I should call Monica. But if that turns up dry then I'll meet you at Central Perk at 11:00. I'll call you to confirm, ok?"

"You've got yourself a date, Ross Geller." Ross rolled his eyes.

"I can hardly wait. Talk to you soon Pheebs. Bye-Bye."

"Bye."

Ross set the handset back into its cradle and leaned back in his chair, deep in thought. It sounded like Phoebe honestly had been kept in the dark as much as he'd been about Rachel's visit. Something about Rachel not telling her didn't quite add up, but he was too tired to spend a whole lot of time or mental energy thinking about it. He gathered up his belongings, stuffed a few stray sheets of paper in the trash bin, and headed out of the office, locking the door behind him, bringing a long semester and an even longer day to a close.

**oOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO**

Phoebe smiled as she hung the phone up and turned to her friend.

"Did he buy it Pheebs?"

"Of course," Phoebe assertively replied, "You forget I'm a very talented actress. He gobbled it right up."

"So…?"

"So everything is set. We'll see you tomorrow in Montauk."


	4. Chapter 4

Author: Patrick

Title: Westerly Winds

AN: Sorry this story is moving slowly. This chapter is quite verbose and has much less dialogue than the previous two. Let me know what you think with reviews! Thanks for reading!

**Chapter Four**

Ross jerked spastically against the tattered vinyl that sparsely covered the passenger seat of Phoebe's rundown taxicab as it careened eastward, its ramshackle suspension system amplifying yet another bump on the Long Island highway. The jostle had been one of a countless many since they'd left the city, leaving Ross sore, tense, and presently grateful that they only had about a half an hour left to drive. While he appreciated the increasingly infrequent opportunity to spend quality time with Phoebe, he wasn't looking forward to the errand at hand. However, the prospect of lifting heavy furniture had become more appealing than he'd ever imagined it could be. Hell, a_nything_ was better than being incarcerated in the front seat of the "death-mobile." At first he'd offered – check that – he'd _insisted_ that they take his car for the trip from the city to Montauk, but Phoebe had been stringent in her refusal of the offer. There was some kind of mysterious allegiance she felt to the rickety old vehicle. It was as if opting to use any other means of transportation would violate some supernatural contract that'd been made between Phoebe and her ancestor, a deal that Ross did not care to understand nor spend any reasonable length of time arguing about.

"So did you talk to Mon last night?" Phoebe asked, as the shockwave from another rise in the road subsided. She'd been waiting to ask the question for hours now, since Ross had strolled through Central Perk's double doors prior to their departure, but had held off, fearing that the inquiry would've been too sudden a broach of an already delicate subject. The last thing she wanted was for Ross to get all melancholy and back out of the trip. He could be so damn sensitive about things sometimes. She eyed her companion peripherally, taking in all the detail prudence could afford – she still had the responsibility of monitoring the road ahead after all.

He was precariously on edge at the moment, but that could've easily been attributed to a car ride that was all too grueling for one not used to traveling under such rocky circumstances. He'd been quiet on the whole, spending more of the trip nursing a bottle of spring water than talking, and now had a knuckle-whitening deathgrip on the empty bottle. She'd only vaguely been aware of it until she began noticing the sound of plastic crackling under his vise-like grip every few minutes. That aside, he'd been hard at work all morning maintaining an agreeable façade, which would've worked were it not for the quiet desperation lining his eyes and a few aimless, forlorn gazes out the cab window when he thought Phoebe hadn't been looking. He'd gotten back on that ball recently though, only exhibiting symptoms of agitation when the larger tremors permeated the automobile's cabin. Phoebe's query, however, had quickly elicited an ominous consternation. He blanked for a moment and then replied in monotone.

"Um, yeah," he answered simply, blandly. Ok, so he wasn't going to spill that easily, Phoebe thought. Ever the instigator, she prodded onward.

"And?"

Ross furrowed his brow, masking the hint of indignation he was feeling, knowing deep down that the situation probably wasn't as askew as he wanted to believe it was. Still, he couldn't help but to give his suspicions some minimal degree of indulgence, not that he was ever the embodiment of trust. Not since Carol had left him, anyway.

"Don't you know?" he probed. "Are you telling me you _didn't_ call after we spoke last night?" Had she not been anticipating that sort of reaction, Phoebe might've been taken aback by it. She sighed, frustration ostensibly pouring out with her exhalation.

"Well, given that you showed up this morning, I can only guess what happened," she finally answered. "And I didn't call," she continued, reprimanding Ross a little, "So why don't you lighten up and fill me in."

And he did, reluctantly at first. He had called his sister the night before who'd scrambled to put the pieces together for him convincingly enough. She claimed that the itinerary was something she'd whipped up and sent to Rachel a few weeks earlier as an attempt to convince her to visit and that Chandler's statement that the sheet was a fax was purely his speculation; the latter detail was reinforced when he opened the emailed copy he'd received of the purported fax to see that there was nothing directly tying the document to Rachel besides an ID number for a Transatlantic flight. In truth, the explanation provided was far too transparent to have convinced one as skeptical as Ross. It didn't take an expert to doctor an email. While Monica whipping up an itinerary seemed believable, and not all that out-of-character for the Queen of all things organized, it was still a bit sketchy. And even though Chandler could be a little off when it came to the matter of social discretion, Ross _knew_ he was sensitive enough to this particular matter to double-check before sending up the alarm. After all, he was a man who spent practically all of his adult life working with numbers and information. Believing that he'd gotten the facts totally wrong at this point was a lengthy stretch to say the least.

Phoebe held back a proud smile, glad that Ross's distrust was pacified. Of course she knew that the details he provided were not enough to convince him, but she also knew that which he was holding back – that he'd received an "explanatory" phone call from Rachel later that evening. She wasn't sure why he'd decided to omit it, probably some sense of compromised privacy at stake, but it wasn't important. It had happened and he was here, that was all that mattered.

Ross had thought a great deal about the phone call actually, as it had come as quite a shock to him, albeit a welcome one.

_Ross's phone began to ring for the second time that evening. Probably his sister calling to add another lie to the pile, he reckoned, and considered disregarding it for a moment. It wasn't long before curiosity overcame reasoning however, and by the third ring he found himself reaching for the receiver._

"_Hello?"_

"_Hey you," cooed the soft female voice on the other end. Ross's heart fluttered numerous times before he remembered the sordid state of affairs and regained his composure._

"_Hey Rach," he answered, trying sound aloof, which was quite difficult considering he hadn't been expecting her call. Yet the matter of her location was still in question, as were her intentions. Was she calling from Paris? Or was this phone call being placed only miles away? The very thought of her being in such close proximity was maddening, for more than one reason, but Ross resolved to play it cool. If the whole thing was in fact a misunderstanding, then he didn't want to accost her for no reason. The distance between the two of them was already a continent too far, and that was hard enough to handle without adding impediments to the mix. _

"_What's up?"_

_They exchanged all the regular pleasantries any two friends who hadn't spoken in a while would, each taking turns filling the other in on what was new in life, and perhaps more so, what wasn't. Ross decisively refrained from asking any questions in regard to her alleged visit, hoping that Rachel would either bring it up willingly or else let something slip without him having to ask. He also wagered that the longer he waited to address the issue, the less reproachful his inquiries would come across. Instead, he focused his interest on Emma and on what kind of things she'd been getting into; he was equally curious about that anyway (if not more so). _

"_So how come you're calling this late?" Ross eventually asked, venturing towards the business end of the conversation. He looked at the clock on the nearby end table; the glowing numbers on the face read 7:25. "Isn't it almost 3:30 in the morning there?" he guessed after a quick calculation._

"_I couldn't sleep…" offered Rachel._

_Reasonable enough, thought Ross._

"…_And I miss you."_

Ross sighed heavily as he pensively reclined against the tattered backing of his seat. Regardless of what Rachel had intended, those four words had damned his inquisition the moment they were spoken. It was the validation he'd been longing after for months now, and it was the first time he'd had a sense of things moving forward between Rachel and him since the night before she left for Paris, the night when they finally gave into years' worth of longing. Perhaps it was careless to trust her on such a whim, to have pursued this dark inquiry to the brink only to jump ship at the moment of truth. But Ross didn't care. Somehow he knew she was telling the truth – that she _did _miss him – and, if she missed him as much as he missed her, than he would be a fool to drive her away at this moment of progress with unfounded accusations.

"Ross?"

Startled from his moment of reverie, Ross shook the looming visions of Rachel from his mind and looked out beyond the windshield. The surrounding column of trees speckled with quaint off-shore homes broadened and dissipated at the horizon, giving way to clear blue skies, houses protected from flooding on the safety of tall wooden planks, and rolling sand dunes where clearings in the residential areas permitted the eye to pass freely towards the coast. He turned towards Phoebe.

"Yea, Pheebs?"

The blonde smiled a little and Ross thought he spied what could be construed as a hint of mischievousness about her eyes and lips when she did so.

"We've reached Montauk"


	5. Chapter 5

Author: Patrick

Title: Westerly Winds

AN: I apologize for the Ross's exceedingly long editorial on he and Rachel's relationship (the part in italics) and the fact that hardly nothing happens in this chapter, but it seemed like a necessary evil to set up some of the things to come. And just to ease your minds (so no one gets mad at me), the person at the end is probably who you think it is. I didn't want to end it there, but my creative juices ran out and I don't want to produce crappy work just for the sake of finishing a chapter.

**Chapter Five**

Phoebe's cab rattled loudly as it ground to a halt on the gravely bed of the parking lot that flanked the small beachfront community in which her mother lived.

"Wow, I didn't know your mom laved in a beachfront pad, Pheebs," observed Ross as the traveling twosome emerged from Phoebe's finally-parked taxicab. It occurred to the professor within the span of the next few milliseconds that he'd never exchanged more than a few words with Phoebe about her birth mother and he immediately felt guilty having called attention to his ignorance of the subject.

"Well, you never did ask," Phoebe pointed out, as if she'd read his mind and was trying to drive the point even further home. "But that's okay," she quickly relented. "Let's go."

The pair walked northward on the sand-sprayed pavement of a road that branched off into gravel-covered driveways that fronted several quaint yet luxurious beachfront havens that stood as the only obstacle between the road and the beach. They'd only walked about twenty yards when Phoebe suddenly slowed down, seemingly taken in by something eastward.

"Ooh!" exclaimed Phoebe, suddenly. Ross jumped in bewilderment at this as he'd been following her only half-attentively, glancing down at his shoes, up at the sky, and only occasionally ahead to make sure he was still following his friend.

"Let's walk down and see the ocean first!" the blonde suggested, quite randomly (although it sounded a little forceful to be a request). Her proposal was certainly a whimsical one, pondered Ross, but not at all out of character for Phoebe Buffay-Hannigan. And while it seemed like a totally unnecessary deviation from their agenda, there was really no harm in playing along.

"Sure, why the hell not Pheebs," he acquiesced.

They proceeded down the road until they saw a path of wooden planks stacked eastward that bisected two of the shoreline properties. Phoebe reached the walkway first and had completely removed her shoes and socks by the time Ross caught up.

"Are you sure this isn't trespassing?" asked Ross, looking around anxiously. Phoebe rolled her eyes. _Classic Ross indeed._

"Yes I'm sure," she confirmed agitatedly. "Did you already forget that my birth mom lives here?" she added, purposely guilt-tripping her comrade a little. Ross said nothing, replying instead in the form of quiet compliance. He meticulously untied the laces on his shoes, neatly folded his socks up into a little ball, and stuffed the tidy pair into one of his now-empty shoes. Khakis cuffed and footwear in hand, Ross smiled warmly at Phoebe.

"Lead the way."

As they ascended the slope of the dunes that served as the last barrier between rampant tides and humanity, the dark vastness of the ocean eclipsed the visible horizon, and within steps, dominated their periphery. The beach was nearly empty, save an old man and what appeared to be his grandchildren flying a kite a ways north of where Ross was standing. Phoebe quickly crossed the majority of the sand and now stood with her feet immersed in the sparkling surf that swelled shoreward with the crash of every wave. The professor sauntered languidly behind her, eyes mesmerized by the unremitting greatness of the sea and his thoughts fixated on something thousands of miles beyond it.

The sea in its infinite depth and unrelenting nature was symbolic to him of his relationship with Rachel; the tides came up and went out, it raged violently in times of storm, capable of destroying entire civilizations and yet, in times of peace, was the perfect picture of tranquility and temperance. It had her mysterious and incredible beauty, his unabashed stubbornness, and their love's seemingly eternal sense of continuity. So it was an odd and painful sort of irony that the embodiment of all those wonderful qualities was also the main physical impediment to achieving them.

Ross watched Phoebe as she strolled about capriciously, digging her feet into the sand here or there, then rinsing them off in the frothy tide pools. She'd managed to wander off several hundred feet, but hardly seemed aware of it. He chuckled, bemused by her carefree nature, surprised to find that he actually envied her a little for it. Caring was such a pain in the ass sometimes.

Deep down he considered it a huge part of the reason he and Rachel never got back together – he cared for her and Emma too much. To say that his motives were totally selfless from the beginning would be a lie; he'd hurt more deeply than he'd ever thought possible when he lost her the first time and certainly didn't wish to endure that again. The wounds from those days ran deep and still ached when given the proper stimulation. But it was her tears that ultimately hurt him the most and could readily enumerate, it seemed, for years to come.

_He'd felt it all along really, but it wasn't until his marriage to Emily was crumbling down that it really became clear how much Rachel really cared for him and loved him, even when he didn't always deserve it. Up to that point, he'd still been mostly consumed by the paradox of the geek and the prom queen and it made him insecure and afraid. It'd played a large part in their breakup when a handsome, friendly stranger named Mark came into the picture, a man who seemed in every conventional way a more logical partner for Rachel. It totally freaked him out. Ross convinced himself that it would only be a matter of time before she would realize how compatible she and Mark were and make a move on those feelings, a moment he was sure had arrived the night of that damned break when he was in her apartment. Chloe was only retribution sex in the end, a pre-emptive escape for the fifteen minutes it lasted. _

_Twenty-four hours later they had regressed to the geek and the prom queen again, only this time they were isolated from each other by something far less inconsequential than popularity or peer pressure. It took years of pain and scrupulous retrospection for Ross to acquire the wisdom and maturity to finally penetrate that stigma. _

_It was only days after he'd returned from London that the real bombshell hit, blowing his headstrong preconceptions away. It was the day Phoebe went into labor with Frank's triplets incidentally, but he'd always remember it for other reasons. He and Rachel sat in Central Perk, where he was whimsically leafing through the daily edition of the Times until Rachel spoke up, poised on the brink of a confession. _

"_I'm still in love with you, Ross," she'd finally admitted, flooring him. Rarely in his life had he felt so many contrasting emotions at one time. One the one hand it was unsettling, downright appalling really and hideously inappropriate. In spite of those things, however, it'd mostly made him feel sad. He'd never known how deeply he'd been longing to hear it until she said it. But he was married. That ship had sailed, hadn't it? Granted it wasn't much of a marriage, tumbling downhill faster than a fallen skier, but he and Emily made vows and exchanged rings and that was that. _

_He'd happened upon a couple of revelations that day while passing time in the halls of the hospital where Phoebe was giving birth. The first had happened when he'd been leaning against a receptionist's desk and saw a calendar hanging on the wall beyond. The date was almost exactly a year and a half since they broke up. If what she'd said in the coffee house was true, and she really did still love him after all that time, then he really was a fool to have believed that Mark (or hell or high water for that matter) could've ever come between them. _

_The second eye-opener came after another failed attempt to phone his estranged wife. He'd been thinking about the wedding, wondering how things went so wrong when something occurred to him. When Rachel found him in the church, she looked heartbroken and sad. He was too focused on the day's agenda at the time to give it much attention, but something about it hadn't added up until today. She'd said she'd come to tell him something, and it took a long time to get out a word as innocuous as "Congratulations." That's when it hit him. She didn't come to London to wish him well. She was there to confess her love for him. _

_But she didn't. _

_She chose his happiness over her potential gain. There were nights like their anniversary when she rebuffed his "dinner at work" idea where he'd accused her of being too focused on everything but their relationship, but that day, when it really mattered, she made the ultimate sacrifice and she did it for him. He could only imagine how much it must've hurt her and he finally saw her for who she was, not some self-absorbed primped prom queen, but a person who loved, cared, and hurt deeply. He vowed right then and there to protect that heart of hers that had put him first and had loved him so. If it meant never holding her, kissing her, or making love to her again, it was worth it as long as it also meant he could never hurt her again._

Ross stood silently, so deeply immersed in contemplation that he did not sense the pair of eyes bearing down on him or hear the faint thumping of two little feet flinging sand in every which way as they approached.

"Daddy!" bellowed a distant young voice, piercing the tranquility that had suffused the surrounding landscape. Ross winced painfully at the child's outcry, feeling the immense sorrow of being separated from his daughter come crashing down on his shoulders. He couldn't help but to think it was Emma, standing alone on the sands of some French coastal locale thousands of miles across the Atlantic, crying out to him, and he loathed himself for not being there to answer her.

Suddenly, a force collided with Ross's unsuspecting leg causing his knee to buckle, sending him sprawling face first towards the sand. Ross recovered from his fall quickly, rolling over to catch a glimpse of his attacker's next move before further harm could be inflicted. But it was too late, as a tiny pair of hands was already clasping firmly to the sleeve of his shirt.


	6. Chapter 6

Author: Patrick

Title: Westerly Winds

AN: So this is the first time I've updated this story in 5 years. I'm not sure why the impulse hit me to pick this up again, or if it's going to stay around long enough for me to get it finished. To all the reviewers who have urged me to finish: I'm sorry that I've let you down for so long. The good news is that I think I actually know how I want this to end now and that's more than I had 5 years ago. To all the people who've left feedback: Thank you so much for your thoughts and contributions. And to everyone: Thanks for reading.

**Chapter Six**

Ross reclined in the weatherworn beach chair. The movement elicited a creak from the chair's old and overburdened aluminum frame, but its occupant was too preoccupied to notice.

For Ross, the last few days (and last few hours, in particular) had been such an emotional roller coaster – from contempt towards his erstwhile lover for concealing her visit, to bitter acceptance that she didn't want to see him, to slack-jawed shock that the whole thing was a surprise for him gone awry, and, instants later, to elation in the embraces of the two women he loved more than any other in the world - that he still felt dizzy and was waiting for the other proverbial foot to drop. Thing was, it hadn't.

"She's so… amazing," Ross said adoringly as he watched his daughter trample over a mound of sand that her "aunt" Phoebe had helped her construct a few moments prior. That'd been his first thought since he'd been made aware of her surprise visit a few hours prior and that thought had continued to reverberate ever since. Ross let his focus widen briefly to take in the entirety of the moment. He noted the gentle drone of the waves, the sparkle of the sun-dappled sea, and the softness of the endlessly undulating expanse of sand that engulfed him and his party. Could moments be more perfect than this? To say Ross wasn't a gambler would be an understatement, but he'd have put his money on "No" in a heartbeat.

And if there were any lingering doubts, a quick gaze at the figure to his left eliminated them entirely.

Rachel sat next to Ross, occupying the other half of the pair of old beach chairs that Phoebe's birth mom had lent them for the occasion.

"Yeah…" Rachel concurred, trailing off as she realized that, for once, there was nothing else that needed to be said. For a moment, they just looked at each other, both smiling freely. As their eyes passed back to the scene in front of them, Ross felt his fingers reach out to encircle Rachel's. The air between them seemed to move a little more slowly for a moment, but Ross was tremendously relieved when she didn't pull away. He also noted that he wasn't worried about what the gesture meant, or what it would lead to. It felt good and instinctual and that was all that mattered. A moment later, Emma tottered up to them, grinning bashfully. She seemed unaware of her parents' small display of affection.

"I knocked down the castle," the child boasted.

Ross smiled and nodded approvingly, then said, "Guess what else is about to get knocked down?"

Emma clasped her hands together, eagerly awaiting the answer.

"What?" she asked, her smile growing wider.

Ross lunged out of his chair and playfully wrestled his daughter to the ground. She giggled all the way down and her flailing limbs sent clumps of sand in every direction. After a few more playful moments, they returned to their feet and Ross, for the tenth time today, brushed some sand off of Emma's small frame.

"I wanna show you something, Daddy" Emma informed her father, tugging at his sleeve. She was already half-moving towards her destination and her outstretched hand beckoned Ross to follow. He took it obligingly. As they padded down the beach together towards Emma's pile of shells, Ross spared a quick backwards glance at Rachel. She caught his gaze and returned it with a smile.

While she welcomed the tranquility that seemed to suffuse every aspect of their afternoon on the beach, Rachel knew that it was only temporary. She'd give Ross ample time to reunite and catch up with his daughter, and let her friends with whom she'd collaborated to bring her surprise visit to fruition bask in their moment of victory for a little while before she revealed the real reason for her visit.

Rachel was also eager to experience the dynamic of her sextet of friends now that a little over a year had gone by since she left. Part of her decision (albeit a small part) to move to Paris had been predicated on the loss of the quasi-familial niche created by her closest friends into which she had fit so snugly for a decade. Starting from scratch in Paris, Rachel had learned about herself that she was able to carve out a new niche if she so chose. It was scary at first, but greatly empowering in the end. She wondered if the others had been similarly successful as they followed their separate paths.

Rachel rolled her eyes behind the lenses of her Coco Chanel sunglasses when she realized that Emma's show-and-tell exposition of her haul of seashells had turned into a lecturing opportunity for Dad. But while Rachel had always found that she was always thoroughly bored by geology (even though she could appreciate Ross's passion where the subject was concerned), Emma seemed to be hanging on every word. And while Rachel sometimes felt concerned by the thought of Emma following in Ross's academic footsteps, her pragmatic side knew well that, were her life to turn out thusly, it would ultimately be far more of a blessing than a curse.

After ten minutes of listening to Professor Dad, Emma's head started to sag and her eyelids grew discernibly heavier. _Maybe we're alike after all,_Rachel thought to herself with a chuckle. Ross noticed his daughter's weariness and scooper her up, resting her head against his shoulder.

"Must be bedtime in Paris," Ross said as he trekked up the sand towards their campsite. Emma's eyes were already closed.

Ross stood in place stroking Emma's back evenly with his hand for a minute before asking, "You ready to go?"

"Yeah," Rachel said, standing up and adjusting her wide-brimmed hat. It _was_bedtime in Paris. Adrenaline and excitement were probably the only reasons her deportment wasn't closer to that of her daughter's, and neither of those factors would last much longer.

Rachel flagged down Phoebe, who'd wandered a hundred yards or so down the beach, and they rounded up their small amount of gear and headed for the car. As they prepared to leave the sand, something occurred to Ross.

"Where…and _how_… _are_we going?" he asked, remembering that he'd come to Montauk with Phoebe in her cab.

"Emma and I are riding in the rental," said Rachel. A few minutes after she'd executed her surprise self-unveiling, Ross had discovered that Rachel had rented a 4-door coupe for her visit.

"You're welcome to join us, unless you'd rather ride with Phoebe in _the cab_," Rachel said, placing emphasis on the denotation of Phoebe's vehicle. She smiled devilishly. Ross cringed.

"I'd love to join you," he replied before adding, "If you're tired, I can drive."

Rachel thought about Ross's offer for a moment before tossing him the keys.

Ross secured Emma in her car seat, and he and Rachel hugged Phoebe, thanked her multiple times, and assured her that they'd see her again within a few days.

As Rachel settled into the passenger seat, Ross glanced towards the shoreline one last time and smiled, shaking his head slightly, disbelief still lurking in his mind. When descended into the driver's seat, Rachel was already closing her eyes.

"Where to?" he asked. He'd found out that Rachel had stayed with Phoebe prior to today, but didn't know if that was to continue. His car was still in the city too. He'd have to pick that up sooner or later, but, at the moment, he didn't care which. Rachel inclined her head towards him and looked him in the eye.

"Home," she said, simply.

And that was all he needed to hear.


	7. Chapter 7

Author: Patrick

Title: Westerly Winds

AN: Another year and a half since my last update. Sorry this is taking so long and that this is a shorter update than you deserve.

**Chapter Seven**

Rachel awoke with a start. It was dark and, for a moment, she had no idea where she was. Then she remembered, and her heart rate slowed as she eased back down onto her pillow. She cast a glance at the clock radio on the nearby nightstand. 3:30am. _Ugh._

It was 9:30am in Paris. Were she there now, Rachel would have been in her office, drinking a cup of coffee and getting her agenda in order for the day ahead. Or at least that's how it would've been, had she not been fired three weeks ago.

One of Rachel's duties at Louis Vuitton was managing retail distribution. Her department worked closely with a lawyer named Antoine who had signed off on a lengthy retailer agreement. Rachel reviewed the contract before giving final approval, but overlooked a paragraph in the agreement that gave the retailer exclusive rights over a 30 mile radius that just so happened to include a high-end shopping district. In the ensuing shitstorm, the bean counters at Louis Vuitton had to adjust the company's sales projections by nearly a six-figure amount. The powers that be decided that her salary and benefits were a good starting point for remuneration and so her fate was sealed.

Rachel had not yet told anyone of her dismissal. For the first two days afterwards, she dropped Emma off at daycare as if nothing had happened, kissing her on the forehead and bidding her farewell for the day with as big and enthusiastic a smile as she could muster. Then she'd come home, crawl into bed and cry herself to sleep. She started to look around for another job, but was having difficulty summoning any lasting determination and had so far been unsuccessful in the attempt. She secured an interview with a private firm in Paris, but nearly burst into tears when, while talking to the hiring manager, the realization hit that the job was a step down from Bloomingdale's.

Worse was that Rachel's cash reserves were depleting quickly. She'd been keeping Emma in daycare to maintain the façade of normalcy, but couldn't afford to do so for much longer. Louis Vuitton had paid well, but she was never an accomplished saver. She'd explored the idea of downsizing to a smaller apartment in a cheaper part of town, but the cost of hiring movers would negate the much of what she'd save in rent.

She'd been tempted call her father. He'd know what to do. At the very least he could float her some money. Ultimately, she rejected the idea. Her father's heart attack, nearly two years ago now, had taken a considerable toll on the man. If she told him what had happened, he would get worked up and upset. And if that happened…well, it just wasn't worth it. Besides, he was probably still bankrolling Amy and Jill, anyway, and Rachel was proud to have set herself apart in that way.

The most crushing blow, perhaps, came with the stark awareness that the dream she was living for the last year was suddenly and irrevocably over. It was unlikely, Rachel surmised, that she'd ever find another job with the compensation and prestige offered by Louis Vuitton. She was equally pessimistic about finding work in the fashion industry at all; no one at Louis Vuitton would give her a good recommendation after what she'd done.

Even so, it wasn't shame for which she kept quiet on the matter; it was utter bewilderment that held her tongue. For the first time in about a decade, Rachel Green felt completely adrift.

Back then, however, it had been different. She had long been all too content to hitch her wagon to someone else's dream. It wasn't until she was getting ready to exchange vows with Barry that she realized she wanted something more. While the circumstances were substantially different, Rachel felt heartened knowing that the end of a dream, perceived or otherwise, could be the beginning of something truly amazing. _Could lightning strike twice? _

_Would she be ready if it did? _

After another few minutes of tossing and turning, Rachel resigned herself to consciousness, slipped out of bed and shuffled out of the bedroom. Maybe some television or, if she was lucky, a cup of coffee would help refocus her mind. As she entered the living room, she was surprised to see that the TV alight and Ross reclining on the nearby couch. He looked tired, but awake and content. Getting out of bed and seeing Ross there reminded her of when they'd lived together in his old apartment, and she felt happy and wistful in equal measure.

As she drew near, he smiled at her and said, "Hi."


End file.
